願望
新來的女孩的名字是一長串中文。她看起來大概十三歲，對燈神來說真倒楣。已經——多久了？——那女孩還沒許下她的願望。透過神燈上的通氣孔，燈神看著她朝四個角落磕頭，一邊念念有詞，說著什麼平行宇宙和螢火蟲之類的鬼話。她似乎認定自己需要一套繁複的儀式才能召喚他。燈神數了五十個頭，她才終於照著真正的說明去做。
「噢，燈神，我的燈神，」她說，一邊擦著神燈中空的肚子，「出來！」
燈神皺起臉。接著他從尾巴到頭被吸進燈嘴裡，然後被拋了出去。即使過了幾千年，這還是會痛。他用厚實的手掌頂住天花板，讓頭別再暈。慢慢地，他的視線聚焦了：粉紅色。黏人的、愛抱怨的粉紅色。床罩、枕頭、壁紙、窗簾，還有女孩本人，穿著一套粉紅色運動服，抱著一隻填充大貓熊，站在一扇窗邊，窗外是一座層層疊疊的高樓與閃爍霓虹的城市。中國？他不知道自己是怎麼來到這裡的，他也不在乎。只要女孩一許願，就是再見，永不再見。
女孩伸長脖子打量他。她皺著眉，好像覺得他赤裸的胸膛和鼓起的手臂很可笑，他那條金色燈籠褲很蠢，而他那條煙霧狀的尾巴——沒有腿！——毫無意義。就連他皮膚的寶藍色映在她黑色的眼睛裡，都顯得黯淡又骯髒。他很想用一根手指推她一下，看她從五樓自由落體掉下去。
「女孩，準備好許願了嗎？」他說，懶得叫她的名字，因為她終究也會被遺忘，就像其他所有主人一樣，許的都是老掉牙的願望：黃金、名聲，或是一顆像牛一樣強壯的心臟。
她不理他，坐到床上，拿著放大鏡研究自己的毛孔。
他看得見她臉頰上的每一根細絨毛。細細的、玫瑰色的毛毛蟲般的血管。她鼻子上那塊淡淡的、蠑螈形狀的胎記。她年輕的瑕疵讓他意識到自己皮膚那種一致的藍，在一片粉紅裡顯得格格不入。
「說我很美，」她說，一邊梳著她那頭及腰的、閃亮的黑色直髮。
他看得出她早就知道了。「我是實現願望的，不是給人肯定的，」他說，「你希望變美嗎？」
她瞇起眼，看穿了他的伎倆。
女孩的房門外，她母親的聲音蓋過轉到上海證券交易所的電視，喊她吃早餐。或午餐。或晚餐。吃飯似乎是這個母親非常在乎的一件事。
「不餓！」女孩大喊。
燈神跟著女孩走到客廳，把那個過大的自己整個縮起來，才擠得過門框。
母親正要出門，身上的冬季大衣鮮豔又毛茸茸。她看不見燈神。大多數人都看不見，被「自己是命運主人」的幻覺蒙蔽了。他承擔著那個令人不快的真相：運氣是一隻冷漠的手隨機抽出來的，而少數幸運的人只要付出極少，就能得到巨大的財富或巨大的名聲，或是一副像屠夫的狗一樣強壯的胃。
「乖女兒，幫我把信封封起來？」
母親的細跟高跟鞋喀啦喀啦走向電梯，電梯叮了一聲，往下降。女孩鎖上兩道金屬門，一道有鐵欄杆，一道沒有。
「坐，」女孩說，癱進一張餐椅。
「這是你的願望？」嚴格說來，他不被允許把瑣碎的命令算進去。但是。
「只是個請求。」
他決定不坐那張單薄的餐椅，一屁股坐在冰冷的磁磚地上，大大的頭高高聳立在女孩上方，煙霧狀的尾巴捲成一圈擱在腿上。
女孩轉動餐桌上的轉盤，上面堆著一疊信。信飛轉的時候，她像遊戲節目主持人一樣宣布：「現～～在是回覆媽媽的……《中國第一小三電子報》讀者來信的時間！」
她倒出一封信，大聲念出來。「『親愛的王太太：我老家的男朋友跟我求婚了，可是有個官員說要在城裡買一間公寓給我。我該怎麼辦？』」
「你覺得呢？」女孩問，挑起一邊眉毛。
燈神心想，也許他可以讓女孩許願要一隻小狗？
「來看看媽媽怎麼說。『錢就是自由。別害怕自由。買我的影音課程。第一課教你怎麼開香港的銀行帳戶。』」
女孩封好信封，戲劇化地啪一聲貼上郵票。「下一封！」
「『親愛的王太太：我老闆還養了另外三個小三。我要怎麼抓住他的心？』」
「『中國人說，老牛吃嫩草。當他二十歲時想要的那種女朋友。永遠撐著一把陽傘，整形也是一個選項。』「下一封！」」
「『親愛的王太太：我懷孕了！』」
「『躲起來，讓他沒辦法逼你墮胎。如果是男孩，就要求一筆優渥的和解金。如果是女孩，就祈禱你能拿到一筆優渥的和解金。』」
女孩讓信掉下去，終於玩膩了她的遊戲。沉默了很久之後，她說：「你知道嗎，只要有一件小事不一樣，你就根本不會存在？」
他的運氣就是這樣。中國有十幾億人，他偏偏卡在一個想要他給不了的東西的人身上。
（未完……收錄於即將出版的短篇小說集《每個故事都有人死去》）
（中文譯自英文原文）
English original
The new girl’s name is a mouthful of Chinese. She looks about thirteen, unlucky for Genie. It’s been—how long now?—and the girl still hasn’t made her wish. Through the vent holes of the magic oil lamp, Genie watches her kowtow to four corners while chanting nonsense about parallel universes and fireflies. She seems to have decided that she needs an elaborate ritual to summon him. Genie counts fifty kowtows before she follows the actual instructions.
“O Genie, my Genie,” she says, wiping the lamp’s hollow belly. “Come out!”
Genie winces. Then he is sucked tail to head into the lamp’s spout and hurtled out. Even after thousands of years this still hurts. He presses his meaty palms against the ceiling to stop his head from spinning. Slowly, his vision coalesces: pink. Needy, whiny pink. Bedspread, pillows, wallpaper, curtains, and the girl herself, in a pink tracksuit, hugging a stuffed giant panda by a window that frames a city of cascading high-rises and glowing neon signs. China? He doesn’t know how he got here and he doesn’t care. As soon as the girl makes the wish, it’s zaijian and never again.
The girl cranes her neck to take him in. She frowns, as if she finds his naked chest and bulging arms ridiculous, his golden balloon shorts silly, and his smoky tail—no legs!—pointless. Even the sapphire blue of his skin reflects back from her dark eyes flat and dirty. He wants to push her with one finger and watch her free-fall down five stories.
“Girl, ready to make your wish?” he says, not bothering with her name, because eventually she too will be forgotten, like all the other masters with their same-old, same-old wishes for gold, fame, or a heart as strong as an ox’s.
She ignores him and sits on her bed to study her pores with a magnifying mirror.
He can see every bit of peach fuzz on her cheeks. The fine, rosy caterpillar veins. The faint salamander-shaped birthmark on her nose. Her youthful imperfections make him self-conscious of the uniform blueness of his skin, the wrong color among all this pink.
“Say I’m beautiful,” she says and combs her shiny black hair, straight to the waist.
He can tell she already knows that. “I grant wishes, not affirmations,” he says. “Do you wish to be beautiful?”
She squints, seeing through his ploy.
Outside the girl’s bedroom, her mother shouts above a TV tuned to the Shanghai Stock Exchange, calling her for breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. Meals seem to be the one thing the mother cares about a lot.
“Not hungry!” the girl yells.
Genie follows the girl to the living room, sucking in the oversized everything of him to squeeze through the doorway.
The mother is heading out, her winter coat bright and furry. She can’t see Genie. Most people can’t, blinded by the illusion that they are the master of their destiny. He bears the unsavory truth that luck is a random draw by an apathetic hand, and very little is required of a lucky few to attain great wealth or great fame or a stomach as strong as a butcher’s dog’s.
“Good daughter, seal the envelopes for me?”
The mother’s stilettos click-clack to the elevator, which chimes before it descends. The girl locks two metal doors, one with bars and one without.
“Sit,” the girl says and slumps in a dining chair.
“You wish?” Technically speaking, he is not allowed to count trivial commands. But.
“Just a request.”
He decides against the flimsy dining chair and plops down on the cold tile floor, his large head towering over the girl, his smoky tail curlicued on his lap.
The girl spins the lazy Susan of the dining table with a pile of letters. As the letters fly, she announces like a game show host, “Iiiiiiit’s time to answer readers of Mother’s…China Number 1 Mistress Newsletter!”
She dumps a letter out and reads it aloud. “‘Dear Mrs. Wang: My hometown boyfriend proposed, but an official offered to buy me an apartment in the city. What should I do?’”
“What do you think?” the girl asks and raises an eyebrow.
Genie thinks, maybe he can get the girl to wish for a puppy?
“Let’s see what Mother says. ‘Money is freedom. Don’t be afraid of freedom. Take my video course. The first lesson teaches you how to open a Hong Kong bank account.’”
The girl seals the envelope and slaps on a stamp dramatically. “Next!”
“‘Dear Mrs. Wang: My boss keeps three other mistresses. How do I capture his heart?’”
“‘The Chinese say, old oxen chew young grass. Be the girlfriend he wanted when he was twenty. Carry a parasol always and plastic surgery is an option too.’ “Next!”
“‘Dear Mrs. Wang: I’m pregnant!’”
“‘Hide so he can’t force you to get an abortion. If it’s a boy, demand a generous settlement. If it’s a girl, pray that you get a generous settlement.’”
The girl lets the letter drop, at last tired of her game. After a long silence, she says, “Do you know if just one little thing was different, you wouldn’t exist at all?”
Just his luck. Of the billion people in China, he is stuck with someone who wants something he cannot give.
(Continued…in upcoming short story collection “Someone Dies in Every Story”)